Collisions in a Binary System
by tsukiyo-rin
Summary: AU. Izaya just skimmed the wrong file from the wrong people. It happens from time to time when you're a hacker with unprecedented access to the network and all that passes through it. Normally not a problem, but then when the people hunting him have figured out the one way to thwart his master exit strategy, he is forced to turn to the very person who sold him out for help.
1. Polaris Rising

_Secrets—how I love them; love ferreting them out, coaxing people to divulge them, collecting them, hoarding them, cultivating them until just the right moment..._

"Please pardon the interruption, Mrs. Bannon. I shall keep this brief so that you may resume your regularly scheduled programming momentarily." I snickered to myself as the words appeared as dictated on the flickering screen of the display of the old model personal comm unit in my hand. Regularly scheduled programming hadn't been a "thing" for several generations, made obsolete by personalized, on-demand content streams comprised of computer generated scenarios and storylines plucked straight from the viewer's subconscious mind and brought to life for their viewing pleasure and no one else's. No real surprises, no real controversy, nothing to challenge, incite, or enlighten; not unless the "viewer" desired such things, and then such things were constrained by what was already present in their mind. Provocation of thought is an illusion.

The point is that poor Mrs. Bannon wouldn't get the joke—wouldn't even know a joke had been made. Her loss really. It wasn't for her amusement anyway.

At the distorted bell like chime of a received message, I dropped my attention back down to the dim screen in hand.

Katra Bannon: Who is this? What do you want?

Polaris: Who I am is of little import. As for what I want? The answer is nothing but a moment of your time.

Katra Bannon: Listen here you little shit!

"Oh, ho! Someone has quite the mouth on them. Tsk, tsk, darling. Didn't Mummy and Daddy teach you better? Oh, right. Mummies and Daddies are for those who aren't born to rule multinational corporations with an iron fist and keep other people's Mummies and Daddies enslaved on the edge of abject poverty. My mistake. So sorry," I cooed to the static thumbnail image of Katra Bannon at the top of the chat window. She was a severe looking woman; icy blonde hair pulled back in a tight, no-nonsense twist, sterile blue eyes impassive, unmoved set among sharp, hawkish features marred by nary a wrinkle to belie her fifty-something years spent navigating the cutthroat arena of the ruling enterprise class. She would make the perfect effigy to burn at the altar of everything wrong with contemporary society if there weren't better candidates; candidates who actually propagated the wrongs—wrongs the general populace would never notice for all the time they spent surrounded by the wealth of diversion the network offered—instead of just reaping the benefits.

There was a time I might have taken up the mantel of social justice and endeavored to do something to balance the institutionalized inequity inherent in the current regime, but I've come to discover that playing the hero is overrated. Been there, done that, didn't get the t-shirt, or commemorative photo, and though at the time it was grand, I don't think I shall go down that road again, thank you very much.

Polaris: Temper, temper. Is that any way to speak to someone who is doing you a favor?

I couldn't resist taunting her just a bit. Getting her overly riled up with me before the proper moment would make this little time-sink take all the longer, and I had a date with the data stream in oh... four and a quarter minutes, give or take a few seconds either way.

Katra Bannon: I have no interest in your so called favors, or anything else you might have to say. I don't know how you pulled off this little stunt, but I assure you, it will be your last.

"Promises, promises." If I had a shill for every time threatened along those lines... well... you get the idea. Katra Bannon, Corporate Ice Queen, was not the first and certainly would not be the last in a very, very long line of people who would like to see me cast out into the _Jouwah_, but not before implanting a PLM (Personal Liquidation Module) in my brain stem to ensure I could never survive coming within 10 clicks of any structure or device connected to a central feed hub. They'd have to catch me first, and even then... let's just say that such measures wouldn't be too difficult to render ineffective for yours truly. But that is neither here nor there.

_...and then releasing them one piece at a time to just the right person to cause maximum fall out._

Polaris: So you're not interested in what your darling husband might be up to on the nights he stays away late?

Katra Bannon: I am aware of my husband's indiscretions. He is not nearly as stealthy as he thinks he is. If you think this is news to me, you are sadly mistaken.

Polaris: Of course it isn't, sweetie. But were you aware that he takes a high capacity data chip with him to his rendezvous? One that he keeps concealed within the band of his wrist link?

I selected and zipped over two of the files I'd loaded on the comm unit before initiating our little chat. The first was a short vid capture from a security monitor from the pleasure lounge showing the illustrious Mr. Bannon leaving the main floor and tripping up the stairs after a leggy woman with sunset striped hair to a private suite. The second was report from the Public Safety and Welfare Unit at the door detailing Mr. Bannon's blood toxicity analysis (experience altering substances were by no means illegal, though the presence of certain ones could get a person barred from entering an establishment), a read out of his mental and cognitive faculties at the moment of entry (useful for weeding out crazies who might disturb other patrons, or have less than benign intentions, but these stats were predominantly gathered to enhance the content on an individual's personal stream), and both thermal and gamma full body snaps (to prevent individuals with dangerous items on their person—aka weapons—from, again, disrupting the enjoyment of other patrons). I had taken the liberty of highlighting the portion of the gamma snap that shows the presence of an extra bit of circuitry lurking under the face of Mr. Bannon's wrist link, and provided a spec comparison sheet for that particular model data chip. I didn't want to assume the missus would know what it was she was seeing. There used to be a saying about assumptions, but people aren't that clever these days.

I didn't bother to stifle the chuckle that bubbled up from the depths of my chest at her lack of response. "Aww. Nothing to say?" I wished right then that I had grabbed a different model comm unit, one a little less beat up and more adept at multitasking so I could have watched her face as she took in the news. I'd just have to imagine the shock, outrage, and less than dignified sputtering I hoped she had given herself over to.

I let the silence prevail for another thirty seconds, giving her time to digest all that I had thrown at her—and of course to indulge my imaginings of the scene... well, unseen—before I got things moving along again.

Polaris: And, for that matter, that he leaves without it?

A third file zipped its way across the network, again taken from the Public Safety and Welfare Unit—psues colloquially—that highlighted the missing anomalous circuity present in the entry scan, and I waited.

I think this is my favourite bit of my current pastime: watching someone's world collapse down around them. That and seeing what they chose to do with the rubble. See, the thing about secrets is that, big or small, trifling or monumental on a scale that could send civilized society to its knees with one well placed word, _everyone_ has them. And thank the stars for that or I'd have to find myself another line of work—again.

Katra Bannon: What are you after?

"That got your attention, I see."

Polaris: Nothing, dearest; I assure you. Simply passing along information I happened to stumble across so I can say I did my good deed for the day. Cosmic karma and all the nonsense.

Katra Bannon: You expect me to believe that you would go through the trouble of hijacking my personal feed to deliver this information that you specifically went out of your way to obtain and want nothing in return? Some how I doubt that is the case.

"Clever girl!" See, I might have stumbled across the security monitor feed (which I did two weeks prior to the incident in question), but in order to catch a report from the psues, you had to know who you were looking for, when and where, and catch the feed at the exact moment of collection and transmission back to the central hub (which I was able to thanks to my previous happy accident). Once the contents of the report were processed, all pertinent feed related data mined, the reports were destroyed with no chance of recovery. It was one of the reasons people put up with up with the intrusive contraptions: no fear of repercussions or judgment beyond the immediate.

Polaris: Believe what you want, my dear. But before I go, you might be interested in seeing who visits this particular mistress of carnal pleasures exactly one hour after your husband's departure from her company.

I select the remain four files loaded on the comm unit and zip them on their way. The first three show much the same as the ones I previously delivered, but the subject was now one Mr. Kaster Reicht, the son and heir to Bannon Corps largest, and most aggressive competitor. The fourth, was a transaction record to an account for one Karl Magnus who received a hefty deposit to the tune of five million dhram the morning after Mr. Bannon and Mr. Reicht paid a visit to the same woman. For the record, if you are going to set up a secret account to hide ill gotten funds in, for the love of god, don't use something as obvious as your middle name paired with the mother's maiden name for your assumed identity like our dear Mr. Bannon did. It makes it stupidly easy to find you out.

Now, I have no way of knowing exactly what was on the data chip Mr. Bannon carried in and left at the lounge that evening, but I know Mrs. Bannon will no doubt deduce that her husband was selling company secrets to the enemy. I don't much care if it was actually the case, only that the evidence seemed to indicate the possibility.

Before you jump the gun, break out the proverbial pitchforks and rally a lynch mob, I think it is fair to point out that, despite all outward appearances—most of which are carefully cultivated by yours truly—I'm really not a terrible person. Really, I'm not. It's just, when you've been around as long as I have, lived as many lifetimes, watched empires rise and fall, friends and lovers come and go, done your damndest to be what was needed at any given moment, and then seen it all laid to waste, with nary a word of thanks once the dust has settled, or worse yet, swept under the rug and forgotten entirely for the sake of convenience or progress or any other entirely too human reasoning, a person had a tendency to become a bit... jaded. Like I said, I've done the hero thing, more than once, and it is so not worth it. I wish I had known what it would be like before I made the one decision I could never take back.

But alas! Here I am, no turning back, so I am going to make the most of it while I can.

And speaking of secrets... the workstation I've been monitoring for the last three weeks just established a connection to the network. A heavily secured and overly protected connection hidden behind layers upon layers of firewalls, proxy tunnels, and split key encryption, but a connection none the less. Exactly on time. Silly buggers.

Polaris: Toodles!

I sent a small surge through the NAI (Network Access Identification) chip of the comm unit I was using, shorting out its circuits, and tossed the unit over my shoulder into the bin to put out next week for the tech-sal rats to plunder for the few extra shills they could get selling the now useless pieces to the silvers down in the _Brakh_. I almost felt bad for the poor sod whose access keys I had nicked. They were in for a very long night of brutal "questioning" at the hands of the NIPs and then be knocked down several access levels, but that would likely be the worst of it. The NIPs didn't toss you out into the _Jouwah_ on your ear for getting your access credentials skimmed—not often at least.

Done with the Bannon's and their corporate supremacy struggles, I focused my attention solely on the task at hand. If I didn't get in the stream soon, I'd miss this transmission and never be able to complete the parsed out file. No completed file meant no secrets gained, and all my efforts—all three weeks of it—would be a waste. Anything with this many levels of careful security had to be something worth its weight in digital gold. Pawning it off would be a cinch, a very, very lucrative one if I played it just right, but mostly, it was a matter of simple curiosity on my part.

I toed off my shoes and shucked the silky trousers I wore about the house—singe marks were a bitch and I'd hate to ruin such fine craftsmanship simply because I am in a hurry—and danced over to the bank of terminals lining the interior wall of the den, the spark and crackle of suppressed energy already racing across my skin as I started letting go of my corporeal form. I could almost feel the undulations and pulses of coded light as they washed over, around and through me on their raced from origin to destination along fiber optic pathways that tangled across the city state. I loved the feeling almost as much as I loved teasing out the secrets wrapped up in their frenetic waves.

Remember how I said that everyone has a secret? Mine is a little bigger than most. You might even say that it is...stellar.


	2. Crash Course

**Shizuo**

Slumped in the lumpy "ergonomic" desk chair that would only comfortably conform to the frame of a five foot nothing contortionist I stared at the ceiling. Absently watching the blue grey smoke rise from the cigarette tucked between my lips create patterns against the sterile white was how I'd spent the last two weeks of my life once self-righteous fury had lost its edge. Fucking desk duty. Accidentally beat one halfwit fuck of a runner into a vegetative state and this is the hell they put you in. I'd feel bad for dragging Tom down with me if he wasn't finding the down time to be productive. How I ended up assigned to the Bureau of Network Investigation and Protection Protocol I'll never know. I'm—how did he put it—oh, yeah... technologically disinclined at my best; which is saying something given how much of that shit is part of day to day life. Oh, well. I'm not complaining—much. The pay is pretty damn good and all I have to do most days is tail Tom around on his inquiries and look menacing. Maybe kick in a door or two, bust a head about once a week (within the limits of "acceptable" acts of aggression outlined in NIP regs), and, on very rare occasion, chase down a runner. Hell, half the time Tom sends me home to chill while he takes care of the reports from the day. God knows I'm useless and filling them out—aka, I don't have the patience.

Another puff, another billow of smoke to add to the increasingly thick air over head. Damn. much more of this and I'll pay for the chance to chase some punk through the stinking maze of the _Brakh_. Give me soggy rubbish, tetanus riddled scrap, and air so thick with sulfur, rot, and HCN you could choke on it any day over the fuckwits we shared the floor with.

"I thought I asked you not to do that in here," a booming voice snarled at the back of my head.

Speaking of fuckwits...

I sucked in a lung full hot, bitter, ash laden air as I let my head fall to the side so I could pin the King of the Office Fuckwits, Proctor Inspector Aimes Quo'on, with an lazy, unconcerned stare. Then blew a steady stream of smoke right in to his arrogant face. "You did," I confirmed, as I watched him sputter and attempt to swish away the smoke; though, his version of asking had been more along the lines of threatening to rip my lungs from my body through my ass if I ever lit up on the floor again than an actual civilized request. I wasn't going to debate semantics with the grade-A asshole. It'd require too much interaction. Bad enough I had to see his face every day.

"Then _why_," Aimes coughed out and kicked the edge of my chair, rolling me a few feet away, and putting himself out of range for a repeat attack, "is that nasty thing hanging out of your mouth?"

"'Cause fuck you. That's why," I told him, debating the merits of flicking the still smouldering stub in my mouth at him for effect. I made it as far as tucking the thing between my fingers before I thought better of it. I had two good drags left, and didn't want to waste them on the likes of him. Especially not when a single pack of the smokes damn near cost me as much as the suit he was wearing. Instead, I took another deep drag and let the billows waft around me when I blew it back out—my own smokey bubble of personal space.

He didn't toddle off like I had hoped; just parked his ass on the edge of a neighboring desk and leered at me. "No matter how much you suck on it, it ain't ever gonna shoot," he snorted. A ripple of disgust slithered down my spine. "If you need a fix, I'm sure I could find something more substantial for you to wrap those pretty lips around, Heiwajima."

"You offering, asshole? 'Cause I know you aren't packing heat where it counts." This time I gave in to temptation and sent the last of my ciggy arcing towards his crotch. I was rewarded with a shower of embers erupting as the cherry made impact and sprayed his groin with hot ash.

Aimes jumped up and snarled murderously. He was itching for a fight. He'd never take the first swing—too much of a coward to risk landing himself with an official reprimand—so I knew that what was about to come out of his mouth would piss me off enough to want to. "Only because your brother has that cum dump you call an ass so stretched out..."

"What the fuck did you just say about my brother?" I roared and launched myself out my chair. I was going to knock his teeth, all 32 of them, in to the back of his throat and hope he choked on them while I rearranged the perfectly chiseled features of his face. And that was before I tore every limb from his body, starting with his limp noodle dick.

Before I could finish cocking my arm back, the authoritative voice of the level's ranking officer cut through the air like a honeyed knife.

"Quo'on. Heiwajima. Sit down, the both of you." Chief Superintendent Will Akabayashi, Captain Scarlet as we called him lovingly when he was out of hearing range, was not a man you messed with. Ever. Not if you had any attachment to your non-vital (read: expendable) appendages. The man could make a _Jouwah_ hardened scrapper piss himself without losing the friendly smile that lived on his face. I don't in the three years I had served under him I had ever heard him so much as raise his voice over the level at which one delivered an enthusiastic greeting. Even so, there was cold steel that lived in the man's eyes that cut deeper than any physical weapon ever could.

So, yeah. I sat my ass down.

I'd been robbed of the satisfaction of seeing Aimes' blood stain his crisp white shirt, but all the bile and loathing still churned in my gut. I wished I had stabbed the fucker in the eye with my cigarette when I'd had the chance. "Mother fucking son of a _poozakh_. I'll fucking gut you like a _ssango dja_ if you say one goddamned more word..." I spat under my breath.

"Something to share, Heiwajima?" Akabayashi asked, peering over the top of a non-commissioned portable link with a definitive smirk. Yeah, he'd heard me alright.

I had the decency, not to mention enough survival instinct intact, to be mollified and grunt a quick no at him. Apparently it wasn't enough to bring out from under the crosshairs.

"No..." the Chief Superintendent prompted.

"No, _sir_."

"Excellent," he said and looked back down at the screen he held up before him. "You and Tanaka are on roller duty tonight."

I took one look at the read out that popped up and muttered, "Fucking great." The guy looked like a runner: small sunken eyes that seemed to dart around looking for the nearest hole the crawl into even in the snap, bland face, sallow skin despite the mandated weekly UV treatments, and thinning hair slicked back by its own filth rather than being intentional. I know I said I would rather chase some rat through the _Brakh_ than sit on the floor, but now that I was getting my wish, I didn't want it. Though, if he ran, I might get to work out some of the pent up frustration I was feeling at not being able to cave Aimes's skull in. I did a quick scan of the rest of the dispatch to see what my partner and I were being sent to deal with. Name: Irving Aster Jaeger. Allegation: Unauthorized Data Solicitation via the Network, Criminal Retention of Confidential PSWU Reports, Criminal Transmission of Confidential PSWU Reports, Intimidation via the Network, Improper Use and Manipulation of the Network, Possession of Unauthorized Technologies. Action: Apprehend for Inquiry.

It was quite the list of charges. Poor Bastard. He must be a special brand of idiot to get caught with all that crap tied to his name. Oh well. Not my place to question. My job was to make sure he came in mostly intact. Smarter men than me would deal with what came next.

"Come on, Shizuo," Tom clapped me on the shoulder. I didn't remember him being anywhere near me a few minutes ago, so his soft voice startled me more than it should have. "Let's see if we can catch him at home."

"Yeah." I heaved myself out of my chair and popped my spine back into place. As I grabbed my smokes and shuffled after Tom towards the bank of lifts I hoped Mr. Jaeger lived a few floors up in one of those cement block corporate dormitories. That way, if we did catch him at home, there'd be nowhere to run, unless it was out the window to save me the trouble of breaking his legs myself.

"And Heiwajima?" Akabayashi called after us. "Do try to refrain from smoking on the floor in the future, hmm?"

Yeah. I'd have to work on that.

* * *

**Izaya**

Being able to merge with the data stream had its benefits. For one, there wasn't a security measure on the planet that could prevent me from accessing the contents of a file. It also meant I didn't leave any traceable footprint behind when I went skimming. Even the most ingenious of hackers were limited by technological constraints that I didn't have to abide. They had to intercept and divert a data stream and copy it to their local environment or host cloud, or strong arm their way into a system and mine the data, all of which, no matter how careful, how thorough, left a trail, some hint that said they had been there. Where as I could simply slip right in to the fiber optics network, allow the data to wash over me, filter out what I needed without impeding its progress, and then slip back out again with no one being the wiser. If I were content with just collecting data, only learning people's secrets, I'd be a ghost, completely untraceable.

The risk of detection, of being caught, came from distributing what I gathered back out again. I couldn't manipulate the network or transmit on my own. And for that, I was in the same boat as every other hacker; I had to rely on technology—flawed, limited and traceable technology. No matter how careful, how paranoid I was, how thoroughly I destroyed any trace of my online presence, how many times I trashed entire banks of high end link stations and elaborate server set ups, picked up and relocated with nothing and started again in a different corner of the world, relying on technology always ran the risks of getting caught. I hadn't yet, obviously, but there had been a few mishaps over the years. Close calls if you will. Close enough that I had more than a handful of contingency plans in place should start sniffing around again.

Getting caught wasn't a concern at the moment. Nope. At the moment, my sole concern lie with completing the replication of the file I had skimmed before the ache behind my eyes progressed to unbearable levels of torment. Human bodies are weak, and mine was no exception to the strain and fatigue of staring at a display for hours on end.

When I say replicate, I'm not talking about a simple copy, paste, wait for the status bar to finish sort of operation. Part of the reason I am capable of skimming data undetected is because I don't actually take anything. Instead, I read the file, commit it to memory, and manually reconstruct the content on one of the computers I have that is not connected to the Network in any fashion. A major violation of the Network/User Codes, but a minor infraction compared to other illegal activities I get up to.

Not to suggest that I manually reconstruct every little thing. Oh heavens no. Can you imagine? I'd never have time for anything—or anyone—fun if I went about it that way. Little diversions like the Bannon episode this afternoon would be nothing more than a flight of fancy, a wistful little whispering of longing that could never take bloom. Life would be tedious, and that is a notion I could simply not abide by.

But things like this? Files whose origins were hidden away by layers of virtual vault doors, whose contents were parsed out and masked to be unintelligible without the rest, and then transmitted at "random" intervals over the course of weeks? Things like this were delicate matters that required the utmost care in handling unless I wanted to bring the full weight of the powers that be and the entire contingency of pions at their disposal down upon my head. I happen to like my head. so... Kidd gloves and whatnot.

"And..." I drawled to myself as my fingers flew over the keyboard, giving shape to the final lines of code that wrapped the rest of the mess together. "There. All done. Let's see if you're ready to spill your secrets to me yet, my darling."

I selected the five pieces of the larger file I had collected, opened a command prompt, quickly tapped out a simple combine function, and left the lumbering beast to run while I contemplated what to occupy myself with while I waited. I made a few lazy revolutions in my chair before inspiration struck.

"I think a trip down to Semyon is in order," I nodded to myself in agreement with the planned course of action, and hopped up to find my favourite coat and fill its pockets with a few spare comm units and filched access keys in addition to the one officially registered in my name. One never knew where a few moments of entertainment might be had, so it was best to be prepared. With a hodge-podge of ceramic and folded steel blades (antiquated things, but I preferred the heft of them to the featherweight alloy now being produced, even if it held an edge better) slipped into the mix, I whisked out the door and bounded down the stairs to the tune of an excess of locking mechanisms (the number of which surely would have raised an eyebrow or two among the authorities if I had gone through proper channels for their installation) sliding home behind me.

"I do hope Denis have managed to smuggle in another shipment of Ootoro, because there is no way I am being subjected to another one of his sushi experiments." I shuddered at the memory of the plate that had been placed before me during my last visit and nearly missed the last flight of stairs all together. "Last time it wasn't even fish! Blech."

* * *

AN: A quick word of warning: Yes, I will be using OC's sporadically in this story, but, No, they will not play any significant part in the plot. I will make every attempt to use characters that are already part of Narita's world when I can, but sometimes I'll need a few fillers until we get in to the thick of things.

Thank you for reading. I do hope you're enjoying it thus far. If you have the time and inclination, I would love to hear your thoughts, because, honestly? I live for feedback in any form.


	3. Not an Update So Sorry

After much thought and deliberation, I've decided not to continue this story as a fanfiction. When writing fanfiction, I believe that the majority of characters in the story (primary or otherwise) should come from the original universe, and retain most of their cannon characteristics. This story, the more time I spent creating the world and piecing together the plotline, was not turning out that way. I hate leaving things unfinished, but this has migrated away from my original concept so much so that very little remains that would be recognizable as derivative of the characters Narita created.

With that said...

Someone give me a one shot suggestion so I don't feel so shitty about leaving you all hanging!


End file.
